


(Mis)adventures in Cooking

by orphan_account



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Eowyn is casually cruel, F/M, Gen, Legolas is a little shit, OOC-ness galore, attempts at cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re making a home cooked dinner,” Gimli says flatly. “You.”</p>
<p>Arwen glares at him. “Don’t sound so fucking disbelieving, Dwarf. And besides, it was Legolas’ idea.”</p>
<p>Gimli raises an eyebrow. “And you went along with this oh-so-brilliant idea because…?”</p>
<p>“Because she is an awful person and needs my expert advice on romance,” Legolas pipes up.</p>
<p>“Shut it,” Arwen says. “This is like, the least fucked up of all the things he’s suggested.”</p>
<p>(Or, in which two Elves, two Men, and a Dwarf walk into a kitchen, try to cook, and it goes about as well as you'd expect.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Mis)adventures in Cooking

**Author's Note:**

> Basically written entirely between nine and one in the morning, which explains the complete lack of sanity. Please ignore the blatant OOC-ness and anachronisms and contradictions which abound.

Okay, just to set the record straight: Arwen loves Aragorn. Obviously. She gave up _immortality_ for him. So she _thinks_ she can be excused for not remembering his _birthday_.

*

“It’s Aragorn’s birthday tomorrow, did you know?” Legolas informs her, out of the blue. They’re lounging somewhere in the bowels of Minas Tirith, have been for the past forty-two hours while they marathoned _Game of Thrones_.

“Um,” says Arwen, “what?”

Legolas looks _horrified_. “You didn’t know?”

“Shut up,” Arwen mutters.

“You’re his _wife_ , and you didn’t remember his _birthday_?”

“I didn’t even know he _had_ a birthday!” Arwen protests, before realizing she’s probably just digging an even bigger hole.

Legolas is giving her that judgmental look which Wood Elves are so fond of. “What did you _think_ ,” he says, slowly, “that he wasn’t _born_ , that he just _crawled_ out of some slime pit in the depths of _Mordor_ , oozing radioactive muck and ready to conquer the world with his evil spider powers?”

Arwen just stares at him, because, sometimes, she _really_ doesn’t know. “All right, _A_ ,” she begins, “that is oddly specific, and really fucking _weird_ , like seriously, what the _fuck_. And _B_ , I knew he was _born_ , I just thought the Dúnedain weren’t really big on all that birthday celebration crap.”

“So how did _I_ know, then?” Legolas asks, looking smug.

“How would _I_ know?” Arwen replies. A thought occurs to her, and she looks at Legolas suspiciously. “How _do_ you know?”

“I have my ways.”

“You’re really creepy, you know that?” Arwen informs him.

“I value your friendship too, Arwen,” Legolas retorts. “So, what are you doing for Aragorn? For his birthday?”

Arwen shrugs. “I dunno. Probably buy him a new sword or some shit like that.”

Legolas is looking at her like he can’t believe they’re the same _species_. “That’s _it_?”

“What else am I _supposed_ to do?” Arwen demands, exasperated. “His birthday’s _tomorrow_. Not exactly a lot of time for me to make some big romantic gesture or anything.”

“Yes, it _is_!” Legolas cries. “Don’t you _love_ Aragorn?”

“I gave up my fucking _afterlife_ for him,” Arwen hisses. “What do _you_ think?”

“Then _show_ him how much you love him!” Legolas insists. “It doesn’t have to be any extravagant gesture, just a little something that you put a lot of care and devotion into!”

Arwen stares at him. “Have you been watching Dr. Phil again?”

Legolas ignores her. “Do you want my help?”

“Fine,” Arwen sighs, and tries to ignore the feeling that she’s just signed her soul over to whatever devil governs Middle-earth.

“Let’s see,” Legolas muses, “what can you do that’s thoughtful, romantic, not too time consuming…”His eyes light up. “Oh, I know…”

“Do tell,” Arwen mumbles, and then regrets it instantly, because Legolas’ face is alight with that same manic fervor that graces Tauriel’s friend Hange’s when she’s talking about Orcs, or Tauriel’s _not_ friend Erenion’s when he’s talking about _killing_ Orcs.

“A home cooked dinner!” Legolas exclaims, like if he’s just had a revelation rivaling the discovery of penicillin.

Arwen is so fucked.

*

“You’re making a home cooked dinner,” Gimli says flatly. “ _You_.”

Arwen glares at him. “Don’t sound so fucking disbelieving, Dwarf. And besides, it was Legolas’ idea.”

Gimli raises an eyebrow. “And you went along with this oh-so-brilliant idea because…?”

“Because she is an awful person and needs my expert advice on romance,” Legolas pipes up.

“Shut it,” Arwen says. “This is like, the _least_ fucked up of all the things he’s suggested.”

“I still maintain that the whole Jacuzzi filled with cherry blossom petals idea had some merit,” Legolas says.

“Where the fuck would I have found _cherry blossom petals_?”

“And why,” Gimli cuts in, “did I even agree to help?”

“Because,” Legolas says, smiling at him, all sugary sweetness masking what Arwen knows from experience is one fucking _disturbed_ soul, “you are an innately good person, and our friendship means so much to you!”

“No, that’s not it,” Gimli says.

Arwen sighs loudly. “Here’s the deal,” she says. “You help me, and I don’t tell anyone about the Thing.”

Gimli narrows his eyes. “What _Thing_?”

“You _know_ what _Thing_.”

“How do you know about that Thing?”

“Not important.”

“So you’re blackmailing me, huh?” Gimli says, crossing his arms. “I expected better, Arwen.”

“Save it, Dwarf. Desperate times.”

“Wait, what Thing?” Legolas asks, confused.

“Nothing,” Gimli and Arwen reply in unison.

*

“So, I’ve managed to get Éowyn and Faramir to help as well,” Legolas says. “They’re on their way right now.”

“How’d you manage _that_?” Arwen demands.

Legolas smiles. “You’re not the only one with blackmail material, Undómiel.”

Faramir arrives soon after, but it takes Éowyn about an hour to show up, and when she finally does, she’s covered in thick, dark, blood, and looks like a prop from a horror movie.

“What happened to _you_?” Arwen demands.

“Had a little run-in with a crossroads demon,” Éowyn replies vaguely. “Not important.” Her eyes flicker black for a brief second, but Arwen chooses not to dwell too long on that, because Eru knows that’s not even in the top ten list of freaky shit that’s happened to her today.

“So, spill,” Gimli says. “How did Legolas convince you to come?”

“Make a guess,” Éowyn mutters.

Arwen smirks. “Still trying to get into Aragorn’s pants, huh?”

“Yes,” Éowyn replies dryly. “You know what they say. The fastest way to a man’s dick is through his stomach.”

“Except in _your_ case, it’s more like fastest way to the emergency room,” Legolas mutters.

Éowyn narrows her eyes. “I heard that.”

“Wait,” Gimli interrupts, “isn’t it supposed to be ‘fastest way to a man’s _heart_ ’?”

“Nah,” Éowyn says nonchalantly, “the fastest way to a man’s heart is between the fifth and sixth ribs.”

Before Arwen can ponder too long on the disturbing implications of how exactly Éowyn came to know that little tidbit of information, Faramir, who’s been digging through the more-than-slightly bare pantry for the better part of an hour, emerges and stares in abject horror at Éowyn.

“Oh my God!” he cries, letting the bowls in his arms clatter to the floor and darting over to her side. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Éowyn eyes him warily for a bit before replying, “Crossroads demon. And yes, I am.”

“Do you want to go to the Houses of Healing?” Faramir babbles. “Maybe I could check you out. Oh, wait no, not like _that_! Obviously! I mean, uh, is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Éowyn replies shortly, and stalks off to stab at the punching bag that is kept in every room in the palace because pretty much everyone who frequents it has some sort of issue that they need to work out through senseless violence, and punching the walls just causes needless property damage.

“Oh.” Faramir seems to crumple in on himself, wandering off dejectedly to pick up the fallen bowls and looking as though Éowyn’s just crushed his pathetic, fragile little heart under her calloused, Mannish foot.

Arwen and Gimli catch each other’s eyes, and roll their own in perfect unison (oh, _fuck_ no, how did _that_ happen) because Faramir just stinks of unrequited puppy love, and while his hopeless little crush may have been amusing when it began, now it’s just annoying more than anything.

Legolas, as he does _all the freaking time_ , puts into words what all of them were thinking, but had too much residual dignity and social graces to say.

“The two of you should totally bang,” he informs Éowyn and Faramir cheerfully, flitting across the room to sort through the tall bookshelves for a cookbook (dignity and social graces have never exactly been his top priorities). Faramir squawks loudly and goes bright red, dropping the bowls again (he’d better _watch_ it, that shit is _expensive_ ) and Éowyn just casts a flat glare at Legolas and says, “I don’t remember asking for _your_ opinion.”

“Valar above,” Arwen says, rolling her eyes _again_ (this company brings it out of her), “way to address the _important_ issues, Greenleaf.”

“Please,” Legolas scoffs, “you were _all_ thinking it.”

“Yes,” Gimli snaps, “but you don’t just go around _saying_ shit like that, Mahal give me faith.”

“Guys,” Faramir moans, still looking like he might spontaneously combust, “can we not discuss this any longer?”

“He’s right,” Arwen says, “we’ve got more pressing matters to deal with, like how this dinner is _supposed_ to be served at seven _tonight_ and it is now four in the fucking _afternoon_ and we still have no idea what we’re even _making_.”

“Oh, leave that to me,” Legolas says, smirking in a way that immediately triggers a series of warning signals in the recesses of Arwen’s mind. “I have the _perfect_ idea.”

“And we all know how your ideas have worked out thus far,” Arwen mutters.

Legolas pouts. “Arwen, don’t you trust me?”

“ _Fuck_ , no,” Arwen says vehemently, shuddering.

Legolas shrugs. “Fine, then. I’ll leave you to it. But just remember, I’m the only one here who knows what _béchamel sauce_ is.”

“Isn’t that some kind of poison?” Éowyn says.

Legolas throws Arwen a look as if to say _See what I mean?_ before turning to Éowyn and retorting, “If _you’re_ the one making it, then yes.”

“No fighting!” Gimli yells, spotting Éowyn’s hand wandering towards the hilt of her sword. “That’s a Myrish carpet you’re standing on! Do you _have_ any _idea_ how long it takes to get bloodstains out of it?”

“Just trust me this once!” Legolas insists. “I’ll find the perfect recipe, I promise!”

Arwen sighs. “Fine,” she relents, wondering why she even tries anymore. “But no escargot.”

*

Fifteen minutes later, Legolas appears and shoves a piece of paper in her face. “Here! I found the recipes on the internet.”

Arwen snatches the sheet out of his hands and squints at it before realizing she can make neither head nor tail of the words printed on it. “What the fuck? What language is this?”

“French!” Legolas tells her, like that should be obvious. “All the great cooks come from France –”

“That’s a fucking _stereotype_ –”

“- so I figured, why not make French food?” Legolas finishes.

“Brilliant,” snaps Arwen, “except for the fact that I can’t read French. How do _you_ even know it, anyway?”

“My father was really big on the whole multilingual thing,” Legolas explains. “He taught me Quenya, Silvan, Westron, High Valyrian, Braavosi, Dothraki –”

“Really, Legolas?” Gimli says, leaning over Arwen’s shoulder to read the recipe. “ _Pumpkin_ soup? What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Hey,” Legolas tells him indignantly, “it’s a perfectly valid vegetable!”

“Perfectly _disgusting_ ,” Gimli grumbles.

Éowyn’s appeared too. “Pumpkin soup,” she reads, “steamed asparagus with cream sauce, grilled sirloin steak, cheddar mashed potatoes, molten chocolate cake…” She wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, too many ingredients. Where are we even supposed to find _Madagascar-grown tropical cocoa beans_?”

“Walmart,” Legolas says. “ _Obviously_.”

And now Faramir’s shown up. “Wow, Legolas!” he says enthusiastically as he skims over the list. “This sounds really delicious! I love how well the chili will contrast with the vanilla!”

“ _Finally_ ,” Legolas says, “someone who appreciates my _clearly_ superb judgement.”

“Wait, hold up,” Arwen interrupts, “are you telling me that I’m the _only_ one here who _doesn’t_ speak French?”

“Yes,” the other four answer.

“Well, okay, then,” Arwen mumbles, slightly dazed.

*

“All right,” Legolas begins, “we’ll have to buy ingredients, because Arwen’s pantry is sadly lacking in, well, _food_.”

“It’s not _my_ fault takeout’s so addictive,” Arwen protests.

“Anyway,” Legolas continues, “we’ll have to divide up the tasks. I’ll take the chocolate cake. Gimli, you’re in charge of the pumpkin soup.”

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you,” Gimli mutters.

“Faramir, you deal with the asparagus. Arwen, you’ll take the steak. And Éowyn –” he narrows his eyes at the woman, who glares right back, “you’re in charge of the mashed potatoes. That is _literally_ the _simplest_ thing you can _possibly_ make. Even _you_ can’t fuck it up.”

“Your lack of faith is disturbing,” Éowyn says, polishing her knife nonchalantly.

“My lack of faith is well founded,” Legolas says. “Anyway. Here are the ingredients each of you have to buy.” He hands out the lists. “Meet back here by five.”

Arwen snorts quietly, because yeah, _that’ll_ happen.

*

Somehow, miraculously, by the time five o’clock rolls around, they’re all assembled in the kitchen, clutching their purchases. Their bags are bulging, full of the ridiculous amount of ingredients each dish requires because Legolas _had_ to be all _fancy_ and _pretentious_ and insist on _French_ food.

Well. All their bags are bulging, except for Éowyn’s.

“Why’s your bag look so empty?” Gimli asks her, eyeing it suspiciously. “I’ve seen the recipe for those potatoes, and it had like, twenty ingredients.”

Éowyn shrugs. “I decided to take a more efficient route.”

“Oh, god, what did you do?” Arwen asks warily, feeling that familiar sensation of dread coiling in her stomach.

In response, Éowyn dumps the contents of her bag onto the counter. Oh no…it can’t be…

Legolas lets out a squawk of pure horror. “Are those _instant mashed potatoes_?” he practically shrieks.

“Um, yeah? So?”

“Oh, god,” Legolas says weakly. “I can’t believe it. You _did_ manage to fuck it up.”

“What’s the big deal?” Éowyn snaps. “I’m just saving time.”

Gimli snorts. “Woo, boy. Guess you weren’t here for the great Ramen Noodle meltdown of ’02.”

“Whatever,” Éowyn says, “it’s still _food_.”

Legolas points a trembling finger at the offending packet still sitting on the counter. “That,” he says, “is _not_ food. That is an awful, _awful_ plague from the depths of _hell_.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Éowyn sighs. “It’s not like if I can go back to the supermarket to buy _official_ potatoes.”

“And why not?”

Éowyn shifts guiltily on her feet. “Because I may have kind of…blown it up.”

“How did you…” Arwen begins, before shaking her head violently and saying, “Actually, no, don’t tell me, I don’t even want to know.”

“There’s a kitchen garden just behind the castle!” Faramir pipes up suddenly. “You can get the potatoes from there!” He then proceeds to shrink a little under the weight of the glare Éowyn’s throwing his way.

“Fuck no,” Éowyn says. “I’m not going out there to root around in the dirt like a Hobbit or something.”

“I’ll do it!” Faramir squeaks out.

Éowyn shrugs. “Fine, then. But we still don’t have cheese.”

“Um, yes, we do,” Gimli says cautiously. “I bought some extra when I went…”

Éowyn glares at the room in general before saying, “Fuck all of you,” and stalking off to demolish the punching bag.

“Well, there we go,” says Arwen. “Problem solved. Let’s cook. We’re losing daylight here.”

“Hold up,” Gimli says suddenly. “Isn’t there anyone else who can come help us?”

Arwen frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, turning to Legolas, “didn’t you say you had a sister? What was her name?”

“Dany?” Legolas and Arwen shudder in unison.

“Oh, _God_ no,” Arwen says vehemently.

“Dany burns…everything,” Legolas explains.

It’s true. Dany’s entire notion of cooking constitutes roasting everything until it’s more reminiscent of coal than anything else.

“All right, then,” Gimli says, a bit taken aback. “What about your brother, Éowyn?”

Éowyn shakes her head. “Éomer’s off on his honeymoon with that Dol Amroth girl.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “He’s always been too stupid to see that people of Dol Amroth are just a bunch of –”

“OKAY THEN,” Gimli interrupts hastily. “Uh, what about you, Arwen? You’ve got brothers.”

Arwen scoffs. “The day I ask Elladan and Elrohir with help cooking is the day I give in to my eventual fate of death by cyanide.”

Gimli sighs wearily. “Faramir?” he asks, slightly desperately.

Faramir’s lip wobbles. “B-Boromir’s –” he begins, and then dissolves into tears.

Again.

Éowyn steps away from him. “Ew,” she says. “You’re getting tears all over the carpet, gross.”

Arwen groans and rubs her eyes.

Great.

*

So once they’ve calmed Faramir down and have all been suited up with the aprons Gimli found an ancient linen cupboard (Arwen tried to avoid the mad rush that had ensued and as a result had ended up with the last apron left, a violently pink monstrosity that reads _Suck My Dick, Rachel Ray_ ), they return to the kitchen and start to cook.

Other than a little incident with the puree machine that leaves Faramir on the verge of tears once more (you don’t want to know) things are going pretty smoothly. But Arwen knows it’s just the calm before the storm. In her experience, things can’t possibly be going so well for so long, not when Legolas and Gimli and Éowyn are _all_ involved.

And sure enough, it doesn’t.

Around the half hour mark, the relative peace in the kitchen is shattered by Legolas screaming like a banshee. “Gimli! What are you doing?”

Gimli turns away from the stove and raises an eyebrow. “Um, cooking the disgusting pumpkin soup that _you_ insisted on?” he says warily.

“What’s that in your hand?” Legolas demands shrilly.

“Oh, this?” Gimli examines the thing he’s holding. “Calm down, it’s just chili powder.”

Arwen thinks Legolas’ resulting scream might be loud enough to rupture eardrums. “What on Arda are you doing with _chili powder_?!”

“Trying to make this damn soup a little more _palatable_!” Gimli snaps.

“But you’ll _ruin_ it!” Legolas wails.

“I know what I’m doing, Elf!” Gimli yells.“You’re not the only one in this room who knows how to cook!” He glances at Arwen, Éowyn and Faramir. “No offence,” he adds.

“None taken,” Arwen says dryly.

“No,” Legolas says, that familiar, manic gleam in his eyes once more. This probably won’t end well. “I refuse to stand by and watch you ruin a perfectly good pumpkin soup!”

“Are you even _listening_ to yourself?” Gimli demands. “There is no such thing as a ‘good pumpkin soup’!”

“I shall save it!” Legolas declares, snatching the spoon out of the bowl of chocolate batter he’s been stirring and brandishing it threateningly at the Dwarf. “Drop the chili, and step away from the soup!” Some batter drips off the spoon and onto the floor, and a small part of Arwen dies inside at the thought of how long it’ll take to get _that_ out.

Gimli slowly arches an eyebrow. “Okay, then,” he says, and extends his arm over the pot. The next moment, Legolas flings the dollop of batter at him. It collides with his chest with a dull smack. Gimli watches it slowly slide down the front of his apron and plop onto the floor, before returning his gaze to Legolas, who’s got the slightly crazed, desperate look of someone who’s realized that they’ve essentially just signed their life away and now have nothing to lose.

Gimli sighs. “I have to say, I expected better of you,” he says, and makes to add the chili to the bubbling concoction that is slightly too green to be pumpkin soup, but whatever. Legolas lunges forward and snatches the container out of his hands, holding it up out of his reach. “Aha!” he cries triumphantly.

Gimli gives Arwen a despairing look and tries to wordlessly communicate, _Do something about him._

_What the fuck am **I** supposed to do?_ Arwen wordlessly communicates back.

_I dunno_ , Gimli wordlessly communicates, and then wordlessly communicates something that could have either been _Kill him and dump his body in a secluded location_ or _Drag a tree in here to distract him_ , Arwen can’t make it out, she’s never been good at this whole wordless communication shit.

So she says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Yo, Legolas,” she calls. “Check it out, there’s a fucking _unicorn_ , like right outside.” She mentally facepalms, because seriously, a _unicorn_ of all things, what the fuck is up with _that_ , but it seems to do the job because Legolas immediately shrieks, “OH MY GOD WHERE DID YOU SEE IT WAS IT WHITE WHERE DID IT GO THIS IS SO COOL!” and dashes out, dropping the chili powder behind him.

Gimli raises an eyebrow at her. “Really, Arwen? A _unicorn_?”

“Shut up,” she mutters.

Gimli says, “Well, thanks, I guess,” and picks up the forgotten chili powder, before dumping a rather alarming amount into the soup.

Faramir says shakily, “Isn’t that a little too much, maybe?”

“Nope.”

“What just happened?” Éowyn, having long ago finished with the potatoes (they’d been the chunkiest mashed potatoes Arwen’s ever seen, but when she mentioned it Éowyn just smirked and said she was welcome to use the instant ones) has been assigned to setting the table, and wanders back into the kitchen, probably attracted by all the commotion and hoping to see some violence.

“Nothing,” Gimli says, at the same time as Legolas bursts back into the kitchen complaining shrilly about _trickery_ and _deceit_ and a _distinct lack of unicorns_.

“I don’t even want to know,” Éowyn says wisely, and turns on her heel and exits the kitchen.

*

It’s fifteen minutes to seven, and Arwen feels fucking _accomplished_.

The food is all finished, and, suspiciously chunky mashed potatoes aside, it looks like heaven. The excessive dose of chili powder surprisingly works in the godawful pumpkin soup’s flavor, the asparagus is great, because Faramir is nice and obedient and has no problem blindly following orders, the steak is to die for, if Arwen does say so herself, nice and bloody and rare just the way she likes it, and the molten chocolate cake smells divine (not that she’ll ever admit it, not out loud).

Even Éowyn’s table arrangement is pretty cool, somehow, and even Legolas has to grudgingly admit that what she lacks in culinary skills she more than makes up for in interior decorating ones.

But they’re all tired and irritable and, after a particularly memorable incident which Arwen would rather never talk about again, liberally splattered in red wine and looking like extras from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, so they’re about to dash upstairs to take quick, soothing showers and change into marginally more presentable clothes, when the doorbell rings.

Arwen pulls the door open, and Aragorn collapses in, all disheveled and muddy and generally mangled-looking.

“Holy shit,” Arwen says, “what the fuck _happened_ to you? You were supposed to be on a _hunting trip_.”

“Well, yeah,” Aragorn manages weakly, wincing when Arwen prods at his leg, “but, uh, my horse kinda went nuts and…threw me.”

“You’re shitting me,” Arwen says flatly.

“Nope,” Aragorn says, “and then it dragged me behind it by my leg for about, oh, a couple of miles, and then I managed to untangle myself, and _then_ I had to find my way out of the forest and walk home, and, well,” he chuckles faintly, “here I am!”

Arwen just stares at him. “ _Damn_ ,” she says, impressed, “you Men are hard to kill.”

Aragorn winces again. “Thank you for your concern, sweetie,” he says. “By the way, why are you covered in blood?” He sniffs. “And why do you smell like steak?”

“You’re welcome,” Arwen says, “it’s not blood, it’s just wine, I smell like steak because that’s what I cooked for your birthday dinner, and happy birthday, by the way.”

Aragorn stares at her. “Y-you remembered my birthday?” he asks quietly.

“Fuck yeah,” Arwen says, deciding to leave out the part where it was actually Legolas who even _had_ any idea he even _had_ a birthday, “and I worked my ass off and made you a fucking _delicious_ dinner, because I am such a wonderful – oof!” She’s cut off by Aragorn suddenly grabbing her and pulling her in for a kiss.

“Ugh, gross,” she says, when they break apart, “you taste like mud.” But she’s aware that her cheeks are hurting from grinning like an idiot, and she couldn’t care less.

“You’re the best, Arwen,” Aragorn sighs contentedly, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers. “Seriously, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Save it,” she says gruffly. “But yeah, I _am_ pretty awesome, huh?”

This incredibly _touching_ and _romantic_ moment is abruptly ruined by Legolas, Gimli, Éowyn and Faramir choosing to poke their heads in to see what’s going on.

Legolas lets out a squeal of delight and rushes over to Aragorn, then stops short when he takes in the Man’s state. “You look like shit,” he says, tact as always. “What happened?”

“Long story short,” Arwen says, “he got his ass kicked by his horse.”

“Oh, happy birthday,” Legolas says. “Did Arwen tell you she totally forgot all about it?”

“No, she did not,” Aragorn says, staring up at Arwen.

“Thanks a lot,” Arwen mutters, glaring at the grinning Elf.

“You’re welcome!” he replies cheerfully, the little shit.

“Whatever,” Arwen says. “I still made you dinner.”

“Um, no,” Éowyn corrects, “ _we_ made you dinner.”

“Yup,” Gimli adds, “we were all blackmailed into helping.”

“Don’t say it like _that_ , Gimli,” Faramir chides, “I’m sure we would have all chosen to help, blackmail or not!”

“Um, _no_.”

“And besides,” Faramir continues happily, “I feel like this experience has really brought us all together, don’t you?” He looks around hopefully, beaming, and is met with nothing but blank stares from everyone in the room except Aragorn, who’s currently hiding his face in his hands.

“Anyway,” Legolas says, grabbing Aragorn’s hands and dragging him off to the dining room, “come check out the food!”

Aragorn’s hit in the face with the aroma pretty much from the moment he steps in through the door, and his expression only gets more awestruck as he takes in the table piled high with the veritable mountains of food.

Everyone’s staring at him expectantly. “So?” Legolas asks excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Do you like it?”

“Guys, this is…” Aragorn actually sounds choked-up, the sap. “I can’t thank you enough. But, uh…” he scratches the back of his neck nervously, “the thing is, uh, my leg might be kind of broken, and, well, I’m really tired, and I don’t really feel all up to a big dinner right now…”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Arwen says disbelievingly, “you’re telling me that we _slaved_ over this fucking dinner for _hours_ , and you don’t _want_ it?”

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ it,” Aragorn assures her hastily, “it looks delicious, it really does, but –”

“Um,” Faramir interrupts quietly, “guys, maybe we _should_ get him to a Healer, I mean, you _know_ how dangerous untreated wounds can be, just look what happened to Khal Drogo.”

“Okay, how about this,” Legolas suggests. “We send him to a Healer, get him patched up, and _then_ he comes back here and has some dinner. Not a whole lot,” he says, seeing Aragorn looking as though he’s about to argue, “you don’t even have to eat all the dishes, you can just try my cake, because, not to brag or anything, but it’s to _die_ for –”

Aragorn cuts him off. “That sounds great,” he says warmly.

*

So that’s how they end up getting ungodly stuffed on pumpkin soup and asparagus and potatoes and steak and chocolate cake, while Aragorn spends the entirety of dinner with his leg in a cast. He manages to sample each dish, and he’s nothing but complimentary, even about the chunky mashed potatoes and spicy pumpkin soup. He feeds all their egos, and they eventually get to that point where they become sufficiently drunk that they begin feeding each other’s egos too.

So maybe they still snipe and bicker and bitch at each other. That’s just who they are. So maybe a food fight breaks out halfway through, and maybe Aragorn falls asleep in the middle of it, and no one notices that he’s slumped over with his face buried in his plate of food.

*

And just to set the record straight: Arwen _does_ love Aragorn. And so does everyone else. Just in different ways.

Hopefully.

Arwen does love Aragorn. And so does everyone else. Just in different ways.

Hopefully.

**Author's Note:**

> Your criticism is always welcomed!


End file.
